


where the boys are

by orangesparks



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Child Abuse, F/M, Gen, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 20:13:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/299614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orangesparks/pseuds/orangesparks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beverly Marsh isn't one of the girls, but she'll never be one of the guys, either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	where the boys are

**Author's Note:**

  * For [resolute](https://archiveofourown.org/users/resolute/gifts).



> Although inspired by a brief scene in the miniseries that wasn't in the novel, this story is planted firmly in book-verse.
> 
> Trigger warning for implied child abuse, as well as violence between underage characters.

_Where the boys are_   
_Someone waits for me_   
_He's walkin' down some street in town_   
_And I know he's lookin' there for me..._

-Connie Francis

 

-

 

Beverly had been walking home from the library, humming "Sweet Little Sixteen" and wondering if she had enough allowance left for a pack of gum, when the calloused hands yanked her roughly by the shoulder and pinned her against the fence.

Henry Bowers.

She turned to her left, hoping she might be able to dash for it, but Patrick Hockstetter met her with a leering grin, teeth stained by crimes she hoped to never hear about.

A brief glance over her right shoulder yielded only Belch Huggins' smirking face; he was already reaching for her with a meaty arm. She winced in reflex, tensing. The blow never came.

Instead, one hand tangled into a long ponytail, rubbing the strands of her hair together to create friction, rolling them around and between his fingers. There was something far more erotic in this gesture than her eleven-year-old mind quite realized at the time, but Bev still knew enough to know that she did not like it.

At all.

She turned back to face Henry, but he was somehow even worse than the other two combined. He wasn't sneering or screaming obscenities as per usual, but the quiet look of intense concentration on his face served to frighten her all the more. It wasn't the look of someone about to fail another one of Mrs. Douglas's math tests, or pound another little kid into the ground.

It was the look of someone planning something.

He had her trapped, and they both knew it. Under normal circumstances, maybe that would have been all he was thinking, but there was something else beneath it this time, terrifying and almost adult. And although Beverly realized all of this, she was unaware that deep in his mind, a whispery voice was crooning that this could all be his for free, that he needn't worry about hunting like this anymore if he just brought them all down to float--

It didn't help that he was studying her with that intense, frightening look; with something akin to _tenderness._

It reminded her of her father, condescendingly cradling her face when he didn't see the blood in the sink, making her thank God that he was in a light enough mood that evening not to take a belt to her, and

_(Do you worry about me, Henry?)_

sinking into her bed with the blood still caked and drying on her fingers and chin,

_(Do you)_

too tired to even cry after it all bubbled back up the drain again,

_(worry)_

too tired to even bother scrubbing it off

_(a lot?)_

a second time.

(Henry's eyes, Beverly would realize years later, grey-green and menacing yet still deeply concerned, reminded her more of her father in that instant than anyone else ever would, including Tom.)

The comparison made her head hurt.

"Let me alone," she said quickly, quietly. Patrick laughed, a high-pitched hyena giggle.

"Can't do that," said Belch. "Sorry." And he _did_ sound almost apologetic, as if he what he was saying beneath it all was-- _Hey, kid, these are the rules. Don't make 'em; sure as hell gotta follow 'em, though, right? You understand._

She'd never felt so helpless. Desperately, she wished that she were anyone else, that she could be more like her friends, resourceful and quick; she wished that she was like Richie, that she could make a crack about Henry's pink motorcycle jacket, get him to loosen his grip in order to punch her, and run home with no more than a dirty shirt and a bloody nose-- no, she wished that she was like _Bill_ , tall and confident and unafraid to throw a rock or a punch even when hopelessly outnumbered...

But she knew that the situations were entirely different. For the first time in her life unprompted by Greta Bowie or Sally Mueller, Beverly hated being a girl.

And yet, it was from this hate that a giddy, insane thought bubbled up inside of her:

_Maybe I should ask him if he wants to play backseat bingo with me._

The idea would be ridiculous enough to distract him. But then she wondered if he'd seriously try to take her up on it, and she suddenly felt cold inside.

Sure, she could knee him as hard as she could in the balls and try to make a break, but she was still surrounded by his buddies on either side. It was unlikely she would make it more than a few steps without getting it dished out at her even worse.

"What's _this_?" asked Patrick, his hand snaking down her side.

Horrified, Beverly thought for a moment that he'd pulled up her skirt without her realizing it. She nearly sighed in relief when she saw that all he had clenched in his rubbery fist was a cigarette from her hip pocket.

"I seen her smoking before," Belch said, as if it was no big deal. "Down at the Barrens, whenever she's hanging out with Four Eyes Tozier and the rest of them little shits."

"Don't you know smoking's not _ladylike_?" Patrick taunted in a sing-song voice.

"Shut up and hand it over," said Belch. Patrick obliged with a loud giggle, teeth flashing yellow in the late afternoon sun as he laughed, and all she could think of was the collection of dead flies he kept in his pencil case.

"I've got more," she said suddenly. "Under my mattress at home - I've got a whole pack, I didn't even open it yet, it's _yours_ if you'll just let me _go_."

"What ki--" Belch started to ask, but Henry, for the first time since they'd cornered her, took his eyes off of Beverly to lay a silencing glare on him.

"No."

At this, Beverly grew more worried. They knew she had no money - what else could he want?

He leaned closer. As he breathed in her face, she could smell his hair pomade, the Juicy Fruit gum he always chewed, a faint hint of cigarette smoke. And then - almost absurdly - he pressed his face gently against hers.

Beverly shivered.

For a moment, the movement on her right stopped - Belch had ceased playing with her hair, and she wondered if Henry pressing against her was the cause of it - but her eyes were clenched shut and she was beyond caring. After a moment, large, rough fingers resumed looping her hair around them again, fingertips crawling in deeper to press against her skull.

 _Why didn't I walk home early with Patty O'Hara?_ she thought furiously to herself, remembering her classmate's casual offer earlier that afternoon. _She's a good girl, she's quiet and polite and lives on West Broadway, they'd never dare come after me if I was with someone like her.._. But deep down, Bev knew this was all bullshit. She could walk home with the President of the United _States_ , and that would far from deter Henry from doing whatever he wanted.

She almost wished he had been screaming at her, calling her a moron, a bitch, a loser, something that would have snapped her out of the trance and prompted her to knee him before bolting. Instead, she stood rooted to the spot, half-hypnotized, the only movement coming from her quivering legs and chest that shook when she inhaled too deeply. The way that Henry's gaze was fixed on her was evidence enough that it would be a while before he decided to set her free... if he even did at all--

_"WHAT IN THE HELL ARE YOU BOYS DOING OVER THERE?"_

Oh, thank _God._

Back home early from the hospital, Alvin Marsh was striding towards the four of them with fire in his eyes, key rings jangling noisily against his belt buckle.

"Daddy..." Beverly said in a near-whisper.

The single word was enough for Belch to untangle his hand from her hair, eyes wide in fright. Patrick was already backing away, uncharacteristic concern shadowing his face. Beverly doubted it was the bruises she regularly wore to school that caused their worry; more than likely it was the ferocity of her father's tone, or how even from a distance it was apparent that he towered over Belch, who - though not yet in high school - was still six feet tall.

The crazed expression he wore, rivaling Butch Bowers at his worst, probably helped.

The thud of engineer boots hitting pavement told her that Patrick and Belch were already hauling ass; it took a longer, closer look at her father's face to get Henry to finally follow suit.

 _"IF YOU COME NEAR MY DAUGHTER AGAIN, SO HELP ME GOD, THERE WON'T BE ANYTHING LEFT OF YOU BOYS TO BURY!"_ and oh, how _nice_ was it to hear him shouting at someone besides her, _for_ her. Al Marsh's hip was what prevented him from physically making good on his promise right then and there, but there was no question that the boys could still hear his ringing threats. A few long lunges were the farthest he got before they disappeared from sight and he turned back to her, staggering forward and dropping rough hands onto her shoulders.

"Did those boys hurt you, Bevvie?"

Beverly hesitated before shaking her head, first out of habit, and then dimly realizing it was true - they _hadn't_ hurt her.

"N... no, Daddy, they... they just wanted t-to... to steal my allowance. You..." She swallowed and heard an audible click in her throat before continuing, "You scared them off before they could."

His eyes softened for a moment, and she was filled with sudden, overwhelming love for him - not for the man who hit her and belted her, but the man who taught her to draw, who fixed her surprise banana splits when she did a good job with the housework, and this mixed and melted and overlapped with her fear until she didn't know _how_ she really felt anymore.

Of course she wasn't covering for them; she knew that as easily as the lie slipped from her mouth. But it wouldn't do at all to reveal that the Losers' relationship with Henry Bowers was far more than a casual one.

All she was sure of was that Henry and his pals could go straight to hell.

 

-

 

Later that night, struggling to fall asleep, Beverly would revisit the situation with anger instead of fear; wondering why she hadn't grabbed onto the arm of one of their jackets when they made to escape, held one of them back so she could introduce him to her father, so _he_ could get a taste of what she had to deal with on a nightly basis for breaking a dish or leaving a streak on the living room windows.

Henry was no stranger to a bruise-happy parent himself, but the knowledge elicited no pity from her. He'd crossed a line today, somehow. And although she knew it wasn't her fault, Beverly also felt ashamed.

She wouldn't tell her friends. There was no point, and then they really _would_ look at her as just some stupid girl (like she was always afraid they might, like she always suspected deep down, like when they didn't want her to participate in the Ritual of Chud--)

She turned on her side and dug her fingernails into her palms, furious tears suddenly burning her eyes.


End file.
